Mushrooms
by Raven's Wing
Summary: When Gothel warned Rapunzel that 'they'll eat you up alive', Rapunzel had no idea that 'they' was Flynn Rider.


**Disclaimer**: I own nothing related to the Tangled universe including, but not limited to, characters, names of places, lyrics, dialogue, or any other piece of product. Disney retains all the rights to this universe. I am making no money or receiving any kind of compensation, material or non-material, for this fiction. It's all for fun. Please don't sue me. I do claim the writing, the idea behind this particular narrative, and any peripheral characters or locations created to augment Disney's work.

**A/N**: There is no sex in this, but it is definitely _very_ saucy. So if you like your sauce on the side, this story probably isn't for you. This is definitely 16+, so adults only, please. Also I know this is slightly out of canon, but I love the idea of Flynn and Rapunzel together with her long hair, so I did it. Enjoy.

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Rapunzel cannot get enough of hummingbirds, fireflies, and mushrooms. They are all so small, unique, and _magical_. She feels a kinship with them.

She chases hummingbirds from flower to flower, trying to see if they ever stop beating those tiny wings and talking to them the way she talks to Pascal. She catches fireflies and wonders if they glow for the same reason her hair does. She collects every mushroom she finds because she never knew things could be so similar and different at the same time.

Flynn lets her.

He even carries some of the mushrooms for her. He lets her go and run because, truth be told, he likes watching her. He likes the way her nose scrunches when she thinks and how her eyes widen in pretty surprise when her bare feet squish in mud. He likes that she seems to see each leaf on every tree when he barely registered that they were in a forest. Everything held her in such rapture and that, in turn, enraptures him.

Her curiosity is harmless. It is questions about how many kinds of flowers there are or how many trees he climbed. It is theories about clouds and why rabbits have such big back feet. Aside from her endearing inquisition into his backstory – everything had been innocuous. That is, until tonight.

Tonight her curiosity gets the better of him.

For the ten millionth time Flynn goes to collect firewood. They don't need more, but he needs a moment to remind himself why he is in the middle of the woods with her. It is hard to remember by the fire because she is cold and presses her body against his side. Her dress and the layers beneath are still damp from earlier in the day and the night brought a chill. So she sits too close and pulls his warmth into her body. Too close because she doesn't know what it means when she looks up at him with huge green eyes from under fluttering lashes. Too close because he can smell every sweet smell that sticks to her. Too close because when he grins at her she gets flustered and bites her lip in a way that makes his throat and his pants tighten.

So he gets firewood. Again. Always.

It is either that or count the freckles on Rapunzel's nose again (she has twenty six) to keep from staring at her mouth and she's starting to catch onto that trick.

He isn't gone long, but when he comes back she is nowhere to be seen. Her tiny body, her tinier frog, and all of that creepy hair are not there. The fire is still there, and the trees, and her dress lays out carefully on the large branch near the flames, but not her.

Wait.

Her dress?

Worst case scenarios flood his mind. All of them involve the Stabbingtons, the Captain, that damn horse, or all of the above. All of them also involve her as bait and him being caught and hanged. That or her being gone forever, crown and all. Both possibilities made him numb.

His first response is to turn, run, and forget this freak babysitting gig ever happened in the first place. There are other priceless artifacts to steal. He'll chalk up this failure to unforeseen complications and use it as a great excuse to blow this kingdom. Blondie should have just stayed in her tower.

His second response is to stay, to find her and fight off whatever danger presented itself. He will swoop in, save the day, get the crown, and get the hell out while he has the chance. He has no idea how he will do that, though. He is not much of the swooping and saving type. He is much more of the sneak in, steal something, and run like the wind type.

He is two heartbeats away from deciding when he hears her. She is laughing - _laughing_. The sound runs over him like a cold waterfall of relief. He tells himself that the feeling is just because if _she _is safe then _he_ is safe, too. He tells himself that he is just glad he still has a chance at getting that crown. It has nothing to do with her safety or wellbeing. Nope. Absolutely nothing.

He doesn't bother to add the wood to the fire. They don't need it. Her pealing laugh is the bell that could bring all sorts of unwanted company. He needs to find her before someone else does.

He follows the sound. It isn't difficult, because it comes again, and again. Each laugh is a surprise, a revelation, because she no doubt found some common thing amazing.

He doesn't know how she isn't exhausted.

He cuts through the dense forest, hoping no one else is close enough to hear her gaiety. Hoping to find her first, hopefully not naked, or maybe hopefully naked. No. Not naked. Why had she taken off her dress? He does not need these images.

While he tries his best to push inappropriate thoughts of the girl out of his mind, Flynn stumbles into a grove. It isn't a large clearing. The forest chose to not give up too much of its precious ground. It is large enough that when he spots Rapunzel's excited, but not naked, frame in the middle of the clearing - she doesn't see him right away. Or it may be that she is too busy running an excited circle punctuated with her gleeful giggling to check the shadows for intruders like him.

While he is relieved that she isn't naked, she may as well be. She is clad only in a plain white corset and pantalets that are too small and short to be effective. With her body out of that purple and pink confection of a dress she looks older. His brain registered the tight nip of her waist and the comely curve of her hips, and - cleavage. How did she have cleavage and he never notice it? He blames the night's shadows.

It is dark. The full moon is the only light they are granted. The silvery glow makes her look like she is made out of light and air. The train of hair she drags behind her is a white river forming a circle on the ground. Her willowy limbs are graceful in her excitement and the reason he needs to get more firewood is coming back again.

But she laughs, this time throwing her head back and spreading her arms to the sky, and he is reminded that he cannot just leave her to her own, rather loud, devices. He pulls it together and tamps down his desire.

When he steps out of the shadows at the edge of the forest the movement catches her eye. A smile splits her face when she recognizes him.

"Eugene!"

She runs to him, hair whipping behind her, and he feels a secret warmth at the use of his name. He never liked how it sounded until she said it. That realization both comforts and chills him at the same time.

"Whoa, Blondie." He catches her by the shoulders to keep her from ramming into him.

A hug from her dressed the way she is, or rather isn't dressed, is a challenge he doesn't want to surmount. He settles for holding her very bare, very silky shoulders. That was manageable enough, but he releases her the moment he is certain she isn't going to pounce on him. He rubs his palms down the front of his vest to get the feel of her off of his skin. It doesn't work.

"I've been looking for you." He says and laments that it is too dark to count her freckles. Where in the hell is he supposed to look now? He goes with her forehead.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be gone long. It's just I was so cold after you left and my dress was still wet, so I took it off to dry when the biggest moth I've ever seen flew by. I had to follow it and I'm so glad I did because look what it showed me!"

He doesn't miss the way she says the moth showed her something. Like a moth actually talked to her and brought her here. He was about to make a snarky reply, but he doesn't have time. She grabs his hand and pulls him back to where she was when he first found her. He lurches after her. She is surprisingly strong.

"See? Isn't it just amazing?" When they reach the patch of ground encircled by her hair, she doesn't let go of his hand. He pretends not to notice.

At first all he saw was the swirled hair in its snowy mass. Then he notices the large stump in the center that served as a throne for her frog giving him a distrusting glare. Then within the frame of her hair, encircling the stump with her frog, he saw the lumpy circle of glowing mushrooms hidden in the tall grass.

"It's a _circle_ of _mushrooms_ and they _glow_! Have you ever seen anything like it?"

She is so triumphant he wonders briefly if he is crazy for not being more excited. She looks up at him, breathless and reverent in the moonlight, and he feels his throat work to swallow mouthfuls of nothing.

Flynn has a hunch that she is flushed with her excitement, because even though he has only spent one day with her, he knows her better than any other person he's ever met. He looks at her and she is – beautiful. Her gold hair turned silver and her skin turned glass in the moonlight. Her wide eyes catch the stars and he's never cared about constellations until right now. No. He's never seen anything like her, but that wasn't the question.

"Uh. No." He says and decides against explaining that the kind of mushroom he looks for aren't the pretty kind that glow.

"What do you call it?" She asks like she expects him to know.

"The mushrooms?"

"All of it!" She gestures her free hand to the ground. "Do mushrooms grow in circles like this normally? Do they all glow like this? What do you think happened to the tree in the middle?"

Botanist, Flynn Rider is not. Hell if he knows, but he'll give it a shot. She is never happy until her mind has some idea to chew on.

"Not all mushrooms glow. I don't really know why these do. The tree probably got chopped down to build something. And I think when mushrooms grow in a circle like this it is called a fairy ring."

"A fairy ring." She sighs like it is the most perfect thing imaginable and looks down at her discovery again.

He expects more questions, but she is quiet. She just stares at the ring while he stares at her profile. Her silence makes him uncomfortable. Her stillness more so. She is only this quiet when she is thinking about something and she usually thinks of something he doesn't want to answer. He wonders if she is as painfully aware that she is still holding his hand as he is.

"Eugene?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you break a fairy ring?" She looks at him. She is biting her lip again, this time with a concerned look, but it still has the same effect on him. Only now there is no firewood to gather, so he forces himself to focus.

"Break it?" He doesn't understand.

"Yeah. I don't see any fairies, and if this is their ring wouldn't they be here? If I were a fairy I'd never want to leave a place as beautiful as this. I think I did something to ruin it." Her brow furrows, her guilt palpable.

Flynn rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. How should he know? Does he look like the kind of guy who knows about fairies? Maybe he does, but Rapunzel wouldn't be one to know. She hasn't seen that many people.

"I think the fairies hide when people are around. They're kind of a secret bunch, those fairies."

She doesn't catch onto his sarcasm. She rarely does.

"Where do they hide?"

He didn't even believe the dumb things existed much less where they hid.

"In the mushrooms." He says offhandedly.

It sounded plausible. Right?

It must have because the words were barely out of his mouth when she lets go of his hand drops to the ground. She lays flat on her stomach and peers as close to the nearest fungus as she can.

"That is why they glow." She breathes. "There is a fairy inside." The deduction is so automatic his head spins.

He chastises himself for mourning the loss of contact. Who cares if they aren't holding hands anymore? Not him. More interesting is that when she bends to investigate the mushrooms he can see every curve of her rear. Oh yes he can. He needs to get her back to the fire and into her dress. Now.

"Do fairies always live in mushrooms?" she asks and shifts over to another fungus for investigation and brushes against his leg.

He takes a compensating step to the side at the contact before he can catch himself. Is he retreating from a tiny girl? Yes. But not just any tiny girl. A tiny, surprisingly aggressive, way-too-young-for-him, half-naked girl who had a way of putting him in impossible situations. Retreat was not only okay – it was necessary.

"Sure. I guess they're a good a place as any to kick back your fairy feet and give your wings a rest." He shrugs.

Then, without preamble, she bursts into sobs.

Now Flynn is many things. He is charming, handsome, and witty. He is clever, smooth, and funny. He is a damn good lover, can hold his liquor, and knows how to tie six different types of knots. None of these things prepared him for the unstoppable roller coaster of this teenage girl's emotions. She is a summer storm in a teacup and if he had been worried about someone hearing her laughter, he is doubly worried about them hearing her sobs.

How does she produce so many tears anyway?

"Oh Eugene." She sits back on her heels and looks up at him with a crumpled face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?"

Tell her what? What was he supposed to tell her? He cannot keep track anymore.

"About fairy homes! I've been picking them all day!"

She can barely get the words out around her tears. Every sob shakes her all the way through. She is all throbbing pain and hurt so genuine it made Flynn uncomfortable even if it is the sixteenth time it happened today. Her anguish is so earnest anyone in a mile radius would pick up on it, and quite frankly, the idea of company sounds horrible.

"Shhh…" He hushes the quaking girl on the ground, palms facing down like he can push the volume of her cries into the ground. "Hey. It's okay. The mushroom market is very diverse. New homes pop up all the time."

His humor falls flat. He should have known that wouldn't work. Her honest emotions have no room for his glib comments and she only cries harder.

He kneels next to her, slowly, not touching, trying not to spook her.

"It's just a couple mushrooms, Blondie. No one probably lives in them anyway."

Trivializing the situation clearly isn't the solution either because she keeps crying. She gasps for air and his eyes draw to the way her breasts strain against her restrictive corset. This girl is hysterical over mushrooms and he is trying his best ignore just how sexy she looks. He is a bad man. A bad, bad, horrible, scoundrel.

"What if some great big terrible giant came and picked my tower and kept it in their pocket? Where would I live? Where would my home be?"

He has no answer. Partially because her question is bizarre, even for her. Partially because he lacks the fundamental concept of home being a safe, permanent, or inviting place. Mostly because the moonlight makes him forget how young she is. Her cheeks are shining rivers. Her eyes are shimmering pools. Her lips quiver. Her bosom heaves. All he can think is how beautiful she looks.

"I am a great big terrible giant!" She says when he doesn't reply, and he cannot help but mentally note that it is really the other way around.

He never saw her coming.

Without warning she launches herself into his arms. Both of her arms twist around his neck like a vice. He topples back onto the ground, but manages to catch himself on one arm before crashing all the way. His other arm comes up behind her back to steady her against him. The weight of her sends his legs out straight in front of him and she settles down on his lap with her face buried in his shoulder and legs around his waist.

She is so close. Too close. Too young. Too complicated. That reason for getting firewood is back again, but there is no good way out of this.

Somehow he got Rapunzel thinking she is a fairy killing giant and now she is tangled onto his body in a way that is impossible to ignore. All because of his big dumb mouth. He'd gotten himself into this. Now he'll get himself out.

"Listen." The word comes out choked and he clears his throat. "Listen. Fairies aren't like us. They don't have homes like we do. Fairies live where ever they want. It's a fairy perk."

His words fall onto the curve of her neck. He normally reserves murmuring into woman's necks to some stage of sex, not as comfort. With her though, it is different. With her, it is always different.

She wiggles a bit, trying to get comfortable, and the friction makes him grit his teeth.

"They do?"

"Yeah. Trees, river, flowers, they probably live in your hair, too."

He hopes she likes that idea.

She hiccups, something he learned is a good sign. Hiccups mean that she'll stop crying soon. In fact if he paid attention to all the places where he body presses against his he would feel her trembling stop. He is, however, doing everything in his power to not pay any attention to that. He is paying attention to anything _but_ that. It is only kind of working.

"Fairies can live in hair?" She turns her head and the bridge of her nose brushes the pulse point on his neck.

"Probably not my hair, even though they'd be lucky to live there, but your hair is special. It's all magic and glow-y. They're all magic and glow-y. It's a good combination." He tries to pull on some of the old Flynn Rider ego to shield himself from the effects of her touch. It doesn't work. Her touch goes deeper than Flynn Rider.

"Do you think they are in my hair right now?"

Yes? No? Which answer would get her off of his lap quicker? Which would make her stay longer? No. He didn't want that. She shifts again, and then once more, trying to get comfortable. It is too much and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. His mind churns for escape routes.

"Sure. I think your hair would be a great place to live."

She sniffles and it is adorable. Everything she does is adorable and disarming. Like believing that fairies are real and crying like the world is ending because she thought she stole their homes. He thinks for a moment about how strange her home is and he wonders if she really would miss it if it disappeared. He supposes she would, but he doesn't understand. He's never had a home. He doesn't know what that feels like, but he imagines it feels an awful lot like holding Rapunzel in his arms.

Wait. What? No he doesn't. Where did that thought come from?

"If I were a fairy, I'd want to live in a flower."

"That could be – nice."

Would it be? Sure. Yes. Of course it would. Of course living in a flower would be the best thing imaginable. He'd agree to anything at this point to just get her off of his lap.

She is quiet now and he can hear the whisper of her breath and nothing more. If not for the strangle hold around his neck, he might think she is asleep. This relaxation, this peace of hers only serves to wind him tighter. Every silent moment is more difficult than the last to ignore exactly how close she is, how soft she is, and how she smells like spring water, sunshine, and raspberries. Part of him hopes that she is thinking of more questions about fairies. He doesn't know how much more he can fabricate about the stupid things, but anything would be better than thinking about how if he inched the hand on her back just a little higher he would reach the strings of her corset and… dammit.

Minutes tick by. The shoulder of his supporting arm burns. He presses away from the earth with all the strength he can find, but his energy is flagging. It isn't long before his efforts focus mainly on keeping his arm's trembling to a minimum. She still clutches him like she will fall apart if she doesn't and he worries that if he takes his hand off her back she will crumble back into hysterics.

Maybe if he just bends his elbow a little and shifts so slightly to the side it will…

She sneezes.

The high pitched noise, forward momentum of her body, and bend in his elbow all send him crashing to the ground with her on top of him. It is so quick he didn't stand a chance of catching himself. A whoosh of air knocks from his lungs and a strangled meep echoes him.

Then there they are in the dark of the forest and the light of the moon. Her weight on top of him, so light, but crushing with implications. Her hips sink into the base of his stomach. Her face curves into the hollow of his neck. She is warm and supple and touching him everywhere. He holds his breath in hope that without his chest rising and pushing against her body it would lessen the tension shooting to his groin. It doesn't work. This is bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

She moves first, untangling her arms from around his neck and placing her hands on his chest. She raises her head, her body shifting until she can peer at his face. His hand on her back makes her movements more like wriggles against his body. The friction is as delicious as it is terrible. Even in the dim light he knows that if he lifts his head just slightly and looks down he has a perfect view of all of her straining cleavage which is exactly what he doesn't need right now. So he keeps his head on the ground and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Are you all right?" She asks. "You're making a face."

"I'm peachy." He grits his teeth and forces himself to open his eyes and look at her. It was better to do that than explain the grimace.

Her hair falls around them like a veil. All of the sweetness trapped in it wafts to his nose. He can barely make out the features of her face. There is an occasional glint of her eyes or teeth, a glimmer of her cheekbone, but she is all he can see. All he can feel. All he can hear, smell, think and by the fates he needs to taste her. Flynn cannot believe how imperative it is to taste her, and it would be so easy.

But he won't. He can't.

He can't get involved with _this_ girl _that_ way. She isn't one of random trysts, hot, panting, and moaning on top of him. She isn't someone to be used and forgotten. She deserves more, deserves better that what he has to offer her. She is the kind of girl who gets attached. Flynn Rider is the kind of guy who is allergic to attachment. If he tries his usual routine, it could be disastrous.

It concerns him that his first thought is for her well-being and not if he would ever see the crown again.

Both reasons are why he has every intention of rolling her off of him and dragging her back to the sane light of the fire.

That is until she bends in so close that their noses touch.

"I can feel your heartbeat. " She whispers like she is trying to hear it, too.

Her hot breath dances over his face. This isn't a seduction. She doesn't have any idea what she is doing, but the sensation forces him to think of cold rivers, the Stabbington brothers, and multiplication tables. He can feel her heart, too, against his palm on her back. The rabbit-fast rhythm makes him feel better about his own hammering pulse, but not by much.

Did she even know what it meant to make a man's heart pound? He swallows and breathes and tries to ignore just how close she is.

"Eugene?"

She asks when he doesn't respond. He always has something to say, but not now. Not this close. Not like this. He closes his eyes.

"Eugene, are you okay?"

No. He is not okay. Every word she says is a reminder of how easy it is to kiss her right now. He breathes out through his nose and bites his tongue, focusing on the pain of his teeth cutting into the soft flesh. He – cannot – do – this. But her nose grazes his again, just barely, just enough to let him know that she is still hovering above his face, and something in him snaps.

He trails his hand up her back. The feeling the soft fabric over rigid boning gives way to her even softer skin. His hand weaves into the fine threads of her hair before cupping the back of her head.

He feels the change of her breathing at his touch. He senses the change in her mood. The muscles of her body tighten over him, pulling like the strings of a violin. He knows that if he could clearly see her face he would see that unbearable mix of courage, excitement, and innocence that he's been denying the attractiveness of all day.

She knows something is happening. She knows something is coming. And who is he to keep a lady waiting?

He tilts his chin over, then up, and there she is. He gives her the softest ghosting of a touch and then he pulls back. He gives her a chance to absorb the sensation and catalog it away with all of her new experiences. He gives the contact a chance to sink right to the burning pit building in his stomach, but that is all he gives her. It is all he can give her. Just the slightest touch left him paralyzed with the intensity. He cannot breathe, cannot move, cannot think because he doesn't trust what he may do.

He hopes she doesn't realize what just happened and that would be it. That way he won't have to find out if that electric current that shot through him was just a fluke or something more. That way he won't have to answer any impossible question she will have. Maybe she didn't understand the gesture. Maybe she didn't like it. Maybe she didn't even feel it! As far as kisses go it barely registered, even if he still feels it all the way down to his toes. He hopes and prays that she just dismisses it even as his entire body strains towards hers.

He is losing his mind.

He doesn't have time to decide what to do because there it is again against his lips: butterfly wings, feather light and a punch to the gut all at the same time because now_ she_ is kissing_ him_. It is so soft it could be an accident, a fumbling touch in the night with their faces so close. It could be, but it isn't. Her touch is a perfect copycat of his movement because she doesn't know more, doesn't know what comes next, but she enjoys the way her stomach clenches on contact.

He should stop this now, not go further, and not answer any more of her unspeakable questions. He should, but he doesn't. He can't. Because she kissed him back with all that trust and innocence and she is so brilliant his chest aches.

His fingers curl into her hair, catching stands on calluses, and he holds her steady because she can't pull away now. Not after she kissed him. Not now that he needs her.

He can feel her anticipation to see where this goes next, what this could mean, this new thing he showed her. He pretends it doesn't mirror his own.

He's not sure if there is a hell, but if there is then he is going to go in style.

It starts the way real first kisses should, soft and lingering. His free hand comes up and presses against the small of her back. She is so small he fears he might break her. She doesn't resist his touch. Instead she sinks into him and makes a little contented sigh that he feels more than hears. The control he keeps locked just beneath his skin writhes at the noise, trying to break free, but he doesn't dare let it. He knows exactly what will happen if it does.

He gives her all he can, closed mouth and chaste, but these schoolchildren kisses aren't enough for her. Instinct tells her there is more. Flynn tries his best to keep things easy, keep them simple, but she fights against it. Rapunzel presses harder, wriggles closer, needing more of_ something_. She is too invasive and eager for gentle chivalry and he is too wrapped up in her to resist.

He tilts his head, hand twisting in her hair to give him the proper leverage to show her just exactly what he needs her to do. Each little gasp or breath she makes is an electric jolt through his body. He opens his mouth and pulls her lower lip between his. His tongue slicks out and runs along her captured lip, hot and damp. She tastes like peach wine and ginger; warm on his tongue, sweet on his lips, and he wants more, more, more.

She gives a small yelp of surprise at the contact and pulls back a fraction. The loss of her lips against his is ice all over his body, but the fire in his stomach doesn't die. He didn't know it was possible to be this turned on by just kissing a girl, but this isn't just some girl. This is Rapunzel and sex with a thousand woman never even came close to feeling like what kissing Rapunzel feels like. It is like his whole world is reduced to just kissing Rapunzel and all that means and all it could mean. Nothing more, nothing less, just heat and hunger and _her_.

The hands on her back and in her hair stay firm, holding her close. He swears that he'll let her go if she really wants him to. He will. He swears it. But she may have to beat him with that damn frying pan to get the point through to him at this point.

Luckily he doesn't have long to worry.

Rapunzel opens her mouth and presses it against his waiting lips in invitation to show her more, to try it again. With her touch he inhales sharply and he realizes he'd been holding his breath ever since she pulled back. It is like he forgot how to breathe without her showing him how. The revelation shocks him almost as much as how she welcomes his tongue into her mouth.

It is far from his most elegant kiss. By Flynn Rider standards it would be considered sloppy, but he needs to taste every corner of her mouth. He has his tongue halfway down her throat and he is still not deep enough. There are things he is supposed to remember when kissing a beautiful girl, and he normally is so good at remembering them, but Rapunzel's velvet tongue pushes against his and he forgets everything.

A strangled, straining noise rips from his chest. His body begging her to never stop what she is doing and to never let him stop, either. Every last thread of his reason and resolve to keep this from going too far unravels and snaps because she takes an experimental suck on his tongue. Now it is game on. Innocence and virtue are a curse that plagues too many young woman and he is not about to spread that disease to her. Not while she is so yielding and magnificent in his arms. He is going to give her exactly what she is asking for – even if she doesn't know she is asking.

The hand on her back shifts lower. His fingers trail to the top curve of her rear. When they meet no resistance they slip lower until he holds a handful of her ripe flesh in his palm. He squeezes. He squeezes because groping Rapunzel is his mission in life now. He is fourteen again and all he can think of is touching her everywhere. Skilled caresses of Flynn Rider be damned. There is no room for pretense when he is so full of dreadful need he can barely breathe. He needs to be on top of her. He needs to be on top of Rapunzel like nothing he's ever known. He needs to pin her down and teach her exactly what all those half moan, half sighs she is making really mean.

It isn't difficult to roll them over. She weighs less than he feels like she should. Her hair binds around his back when they move, forcing proximity when there is no need for encouragement. She squeaks in surprise at the shift. The weight of him over her body is new, confining and comforting all at the same time. She feels safe, warm, and she wonders why anyone would ever want to be anywhere but right here.

Her hands are free to roam now, and they do. She is curious about his body, what it looks like, feels like, tastes like, but there are so many clothes in the way. Nimble fingers work the clasps on his vest and he arches to accommodate her searching fingers with a conflicted groan.

When her fingers hook into his belt and dip into the waistband of his pants to free his shirt - he knows he should stop her. He knows she has no idea what it means to undress a man lying on top of her, kissing her because he needs her to breathe. He knows she is just following an instinct as old and deep as any she had. He knows that her unbelievable thirst for the new and different made her difficult to resist, but that he should try anyway. He knows that he should be the voice of reason and explain propriety and how she is supposed to behave. He should disentangle himself from her arms and hair and stop. She is too young and willing and he should stop her, but her fingers make the first brush over his stomach and she may as well have hit him with a lightning bolt.

He breaks away from her mouth with a hiss. The feather light touch is too much for his brain to process. Her hands splay against the rippled expanse of his abs and run up to his chest, rucking his shirt under his arms. Her greedy hands push at the fabric, wanting full access, and he denies her nothing. He pushes himself up as far as the wrap of her hair around his back will allow and grabs the offending fabric, and pulls it off his body. The evening air hits his skin but he doesn't feel the chill. Not with her tiny hands tracing every new contour he gives her with the thorough curiosity she showed in every other exploration.

He crashes down against her and his lips find the column of her throat. His lips trail wet kisses along her neck, her jaw, her ear before working back down to the junction where her throat meets her shoulder. He enjoys the way she trembles when he nibbles there. He also enjoys the way her delicate fingertips cling to the dip where the defined muscles of his shoulders meets his arms.

Caution be damned.

She has her hands in his hair, scraping his back, clutching his rear, seeking purchase, climbing up the ever tightening rope they weave. There must be more to this tension than just adding more and more on top of it. Her legs come up alongside his body, bending up by his hips so he can settle closer to the ache she doesn't understand building at her center.

His tongue traces her collarbone and one hand grips her slender thigh. She squirms against him. Pressing, arching, bending, searching for some sort of friction. Needing more contact, more pressure, not knowing exactly why, but knowing that she would go crazy without it. He gives it to her because he needs it, too. They rock in an inelegant fashion against each other, panting, working furiously through frustrating layers of clothing.

Rapunzel grabs Flynn's face and kisses him, deep and desperate, begging him to help her understand exactly what is happening to her body. She feels like she may explode and that is what he is aiming for. That is exactly what he needs from her. So he kisses her the best way he knows how, all heat and haste, trying to give her what she needs.

Deft fingers move to the latches on the busk of her corset and flick them open. Each release opens her to him that much more until it is skin on skin, the swell of her breasts push against the lean wall of his chest, and it has never felt like this before. He clenches his jaw and drops his face to the crook of her neck, straining against the overwhelming needs to shatter in her arms. He can't bring her this far and then leave her unfinished.

In one more desperate attempt to bring her to completion - he bites the sweet junction where her throat meets her shoulder and then she is done.

"Eu-gene." She gasps into the night as bliss begins to wash over her in waves.

She claws at his back as he strains against her, his own release imminent. Her body feels like fireworks, like thousands of eruptions just under her skin. She writhes underneath him, the sensation of it all too much for her to stay still, and her abandon is the most sensual thing he has ever witnessed. She flowed in a series of wild gestures. Her body tightening and expanding all at once, fighting itself in heated confusion.

Once he is certain she is taken care of, he doesn't hold back anymore. With her, there is no reason to hold back, no reputation he has to maintain. He has no need to save up or keep it going. It isn't so complicated with her – even if it is much more complicated. He is still half dressed, in the middle of some forsaken clearing, on top of a girl that he barely did more than kiss, but lights pure white burst behind his eyes. Liquid fire surges to every nerve. His body seizes and he just lets go. He captures her mouth in a blind gesture of need, finishing hot and boneless on top of her.

The pieces of reality start drifting back to his mind bit by bit, but he is still on top of Rapunzel. He is still kissing Rapunzel. He is still stroking her hair and murmuring against her mouth and is far too busy to be bothered with things like consequences for his actions. When he does draw back, brushing the backs of his fingers along her soft cheek, he has no idea what to do next. His normal interactions of this kind ended with him slipping out while the girl slept, or him kicking her out as soon as she finished panting. This, here, now – was different.

So he rests his forehead against hers and just breathes. They stay here for several long moments, unable to vocalize what they're thinking, feeling.

Finally: "What _was_ that?"

She is still breathless, eyes wide with wonder, and he wishes he knew. It was – it was – everything. But he can't tell her that. He also doesn't feel up to explaining the facts of life to Rapunzel tonight, so he says the only other thing that comes to mind.

"Magic." He replies, and he swears the light from the fairy ring glows a little brighter.

Maybe he isn't quite as wrong as he thinks.


End file.
